


Dead Men Tell No Love Stories

by Ruwin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance, Smaug is bastard, Thranduil works at a funeral parlour, a bit of crime, badass Bard, dark humour, other Middle Earth characters' cameos, rain is sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruwin/pseuds/Ruwin
Summary: Barduil modern AU | Thranduil is a desperate funeral parlour owner, whose ordinary working day turns into a nightmare, when his hearse suddenly conks out halfway to a funeral, and he's stuck on a road in the middle of nowhere. Bard is a man with dark secret, and even darker sense of humour, who stops his motorbike, and offers Thranduil help. There's an instant spark between them, gallows humour becomes a strong aphrodisiac, and a dead man in a boot an even stronger cockblock. Will Thranduil and Bard manage to get a corpse of unpopular businessman D. Smaug to his own funeral on time?





	Dead Men Tell No Love Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Nebožtíci (ne)přejí lásce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195782) by [Ruwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruwin/pseuds/Ruwin). 



> I've written this story in Czech a year ago, and decided to translate it in English 'cause I was bored out of my tits and too lazy to write anything new. In the end I had to write many things differently, because the Czech puns and sayings I'd used in the original didn't exist in English. That's why they might look a bit awkward sometimes, but I hope I've done them justice. And I've also had the best beta-reader I could've wished for. Thank you, Kristýna (Somebodyloving)! You're truly an amazing person :)
> 
> This fic is a modern AU set in today's world, in which Thranduil is a manager of a family business providing funeral services. And why not?! I've seen these two in much weirder roles.  
> I wanted to write something silly, funny, sexy, and of course romantic as well. I leave it to your judgement to see if I succeeded.  
> The only warning that comes to my mind would be that there's a lot of talking about corpses. But I avoided most of the disgusting stuff; an average episode of CSI: Las Vegas is a hundred times worse. Death is basically the main supporting character in this story.  
> I have never worked at a funeral home, therefore I am sorry for any potential mistakes in describing of how the things are done at such places.  
> I've used lyrics of three songs in the fic. You can find their names and authors in the end notes.

Even the sky was dressed in shades of black and grey; hanging over the landcape fluffed up and heavy like a mortcloth. All colours seemed dull as if looking from under a widow's veil, and humid, damp air muffled all sounds like thick walls of a chapel built of musty stone. _I am one dark cloud away from slipping from contemplation into depression_ , thought Thranduil behind a wheel of a long black car jolting with deliberate pace through bends of unusually empty road in the wooded and deserted no man's land somewhere between the islands of civilization. He was certain that his quiet passenger would have been satisfied. _A perfect weather for a funeral_. And such 'tremendously important' businessman as D. Smaug would have thought it right for the whole world to mourn for him. Why should sun shine on the day of his burial, and allow people to have picknics, go on trips, and to run carefree in blooming meadows? That was at least the impression Thranduil had gotten from the scarce and scrappy information Smaug's assistent had given him about his employer. But Thranduil didn't care if the businessman had been a jerk in life. What he was now was his client, and he was going to make sure that his funeral was dignified and tasteful, and that the deceased got there on time. He checked his watch and frowned a little. It seemed like he was going to only just make it. For some reason this forest path was taking much longer than he'd expected. However much he liked woods, he couldn't wait to leave them behind and drive through an open land again.

Finally the trees alongside the road grew thinner, and after a few more meters he once again saw something else than rows of tree trunks and tangled branches. But at the same moment he began slowing down. The hearse coughed tragically, did one last abrupt jump forward, so that Thranduil could hear the shifting of the coffin in the back, and then it stopped still like a human heart after the last raspy breath.

“No, don't you dare,” he growled while trying to start it back up. That old rattletrap surely couldn't be serious?! But after few more minutes Thranduil realised the machine was serious, and that realisation almost cost him half of his hair when he desperately ran his hands through it, as he let out an inhuman roar and banged his forehead against the wheel. In the time when he didn't have a minute to spare, he got stuck literally in the middle of nowhere, and he knew it would take forever to get some help. He wondered if he should call Legolas first, who had arrived at the funeral scene several hours ahead to prepare the flowers. Perhaps he would be able to tactfully and inconspicuously delay the funeral a little...?

Yes, he should call him. But Thranduil couldn't get himself to move. All of a sudden it felt like all the worries and problems of the last few weeks lied heavily on his back and broke his spine in half. He didn't feel like ever looking back up to the black road and grey sky. He would prefer to quietly switch places with his passenger in the back and take a long nap. A memory sneaked out of some dark dusty corner of his mind, of the stories about close encounters with the UFO, usually beginning with the situation very similar to his current one. People always said their engine would stop running suddenly on a deserted road, then they would notice strange lights, and before they knew it, grey aliens inside their spaceship would be sticking them who-knows-what to who-knows-where, and taking samples of this and that. Thranduil gave a weepy laugh over such nonsense. He would gladly oblige a bunch of aliens if it meant his car started and worked again and the problem was solved!

Yes, it was utter nonsense, but Thranduil in his resigned mind gave it way too much thought, and when his ears caught a sound of a fast approaching roaring engine, he sharply looked up to the sky through the windscreen. Of course there were no strange lights, nor unidentified flying objects. He sighed deeply, as he lowered his gaze in more reasonable direction of his door mirror, and saw a man on a motorbike. He was driving fast, but noticed the car in the middle of the road on time, and slowed down. Thranduil sullenly pondered, where he had put his warning triangle. Meanwhile the biker passed him by – so close that Thranduil could see a flash of white teeth in a smile that aggravated him instantly like a wasp. _Laugh all you want, dimwit_ , he thought to himself, _Pretty soon you might end up on my table, and Tauriel would have a good deal of work trying to cover with a ton of make-up the fact that your head resembled a stepped-on tomato_. - As he also didn't miss the fact that the man on the bike wasn't wearing a helmet. He had had the 'pleasure' to work with at least ten young show-offs like this one. He had never been fond of them...

His outburst of cynical thoughts was promptly plugged by the surprise, as he watched the biker some ten meters in front of him make an elegant turn and head back towards the hearse. Thranduil watched confused as the man drove to the roadside and stopped his death machine. Then he dismounted, and with a practical brisk gait headed for the car. It looked a little bit ominous. His silhouette was outlined by dark grey ramparts of clouds in the sky, his mane of raven-black hair flying as if it had life of its own, and his black leather jacket gave a metallic glimmer with each move. That particular piece of clothing looked like it had been to a great many rides with its owner: slightly scuffed and comfortably slack it probably had become his second skin. And when the biker lifted his hand to take off the sunglasses he didn't need in the dimming light anyway, Thranduil was once more surprised, when he realised that it wasn't just an effect created by fashion designer. Contrary to his original assumption, this man wasn't some snot-nosed kid used to driving pretty girls to dance. He was a man about Thranduil's age, probably cruising the roads in his leather jacket since his teenage years.

Thranduil sat up watchfully and fixed the approaching figure with a stern and slightly warning stare. One last time the stranger looked over the writing on the side of the car – _Lasgalen, funeral parlour_ – and then looked straight at him, nodding his head, and smiled a crooked warm smile that chased away all the suspicious shadows from his face. It took Thranduil some effort to keep on his reserved expression when the man with his smile rested one arm on the hearse, and stooped down to a window Thranduil had winded down.

“Did somebody buy the farm?”

Thranduil asked himself if he liked the man's voice, but it was his stomach that decided for him when it made a sudden half-somersault. “No, I didn't drive past any farms in this area. My engine died, and I have no idea why,” he answered, and tried to keep his tone neutral and matter-of-fact.

Corners of the stranger's mouth turned up even higher. Thranduil got the joke just a moment later, and he barely stopped his own lips from forming a smile. He masked the laugh with a vehement clearing of his throat, and mentally reprimanded himself for almost acting so inappropriately and unprofessionally.

“Would you like me to take a look at it?” the man suggested.

At that moment Thranduil's attention was once again caught by the small metallic glimmer on the biker's chest. He glanced over the jacket and found its source. It was a little silver object hanging from a zipper: an arrow-shaped pendant. He smiled before he knew it. When he looked back up again, dark eyes were watching him with a mix of amusement and surprise. “Do you know how to fix cars?”

“Supposedly, yes.”

“That does not sound convincing at all.”

“Then I guess you'll have to allow me to dive under the bonnet, and let my actions speak for me.” A challenge flickered in his voice as he shrugged and took a step back. Thranduil mused a little helplessly if there was a double entendre in that sentence, or if he merely imagined it.

“I guess you can't make it worse anyway,” he sighed, and scrambled out of his vehicle. After the cold inside it felt like the sultry outside air smacked him in the face. He was sure that pretty soon he would be boiled alive in his long black suit jacket. Disgruntled, he glanced at the sky: grey and heavy like a pregnant elephant. With the corner of his eye he caught the thorough look his companion – whom he now overtopped a whole foot – examined him with. Unexpected gust of wind tousled a few strands of his silvery blonde hair, and Thranduil, horrified, thought about the mess his once neat and smooth pony tail must had turned into. He was prepared for the horror in the biker's eyes, but when he turned towards him, the man was already on his way to the front of the car. From his forearm he pulled off something like a leather bracelet, collected all his wavy flying tresses, and tied them up in a bun on the back of his head. He opened the bonnet with a practised move, and disappeared from the sight, and Thranduil felt a sudden flare of jealousy towards his car.

He had no idea what had gotten into him, but he wrote off his flurry of emotions towards the complete stranger as a result of his jangled nerves and his gratitude for not having to be stuck here all by his lonesome. He dug out small box from under the seat, and took out his warning triangle. The moment he placed it on asphalt, he had phone in his hand and dialed Legolas' number.

“Hello?”

“Legolas, we have an issue.”

“Be more specific. We've got more issues than _Daily Mirror_.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. He could hear familiar rustle of flowers being arranged, and babble of voices in the background on Legolas' end. “I'm talking about the funeral, not us! The car broke down, and I got stuck halfway there. So it will probably be left to you to arrange the delay of the ceremony, and to apologize deeply and sincerely enough, so that they won't sue us or something. You know how these businessmen are-”

“Whee! I'm gonna need some grass!” squealed his son. Thranduil would have reprimanded him, but Legolas could be talking about actual grass he might need for his work. “I'll try. But how long are you gonna be? What are you going to do anyway – call the breakdown cover?”

Thranduil stopped pacing with the phone, and stood next to the biker who had meanwhile taken off his jacket, and at the moment was completely absorbed by the inside of the hearse. “I might not need to call anywhere. One very obliging man-” he paused when he realised they had not even introduced to each other yet. He shot a pleading look at the man, who looked up from the engine as if on command, extended his tanned greasy hand to him, and said, “Bard.”

Thranduil shook his hand without hesitation, and told him his own name, before an awkward mumble from the phone reminded him he had his son on the line. “Bard stopped and offered me help. I don't know if he'll be able to get the car going-” He walked a little bit away again to give Bard more space for working, and turned on his heel. “-but it definitely looks very promising.” After he said it, he realised he had just drawn that optimistic conclusion from ten seconds of staring at the black-haired man's butt. He shook himself, and walked further away where the view was less distracting.

“Mmm, so very obliging Bard is helping you to get it going?” Legolas' tone was slick as an earthworm after rain. Thranduil mused if his son knew him so very well to be able to hear such small change in his voice. “Call when you know something more. I'm going to talk them around, but I wouldn't worry about a lawsuit or anything.”

“How come?”

“These people don't give a damn about some ceremony. The atmosphere is so easy, it's more like before the Mumford & Sons concert than a funeral. I asked one bloke, and from what he said it sounded like that Smaug was kind of a bastard.”

“Legolas!” He wasn't sure, but Thranduil thought he heard someone chuckle next to Legolas. Apparently his son could be unprofessional for both of them. At least it wasn't church funeral, so there was no risk of him desecrating anything or fatally offending a priest again. “Even if the man spent his life ravaging old ladies' flower gardens and stealing candy from children, we're still paid so that he can bid his farewell to this world with dignity. So you better maintain the decorum. And if you can't do it, don't speak at all! And be sure we're going to have a talk about this once we're home.” He sharply turned away from the bleak landscape in a whirlwind of his own outrage. Legolas' long-suffering sigh was mostly lost in the rumble of thunder above Thranduil's head. A sympathetic look was sent to him from under the hood of his car, and Thranduil gave Bard thankful half-smile as he said his son goodbye in a warning tone, and promised to call back soon.

“I'm sorry. Legolas often drives me mad,” he said, calming himself down by untying his hair, and in a picking wind he tried to tame it back into a perfect ponytail.

“It sounded like you have very informal relationship with your employees,” observed his companion; but it didn't sound like an accusation. “Do you have any tools in the car?”

Thranduil nodded, and headed to the other end of the car. “Legolas is my son,” he explained. “And employee – terrible combination.” Bard winced knowingly, and helped him open the car's back door. “He's a good florist. Better since he's quit smoking marijuana at work... Though, today I'm not so sure about that.”

The other man grinned and nodded his head in understanding. Thranduil didn't miss the inquisitive look he ran over the surface of massive opulent coffin lounging about in the boot. Curiously he watched for a reaction that scene would elicit on Bard's face. When Bard noticed Thranduil staring at him, he smiled and pointed his chin towards the casket.

“So he spent his life ravaging old ladies' flower gardens and stealing candy from children?”

Corners of Thranduil's mouth jerked up once again, but he managed to stop himself at the last moment. “No idea. All I know is that he was an important and powerful businessman, and that today is going to be his first time he'll have showed up late somewhere.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure he's bound to be late at his own funeral.”

It was shock for both of them, when Thranduil barked out laughing. He simply wasn't ready for this. And ever since Bard's very first morbid joke he had felt his body and mind desire to forget stress for a few moments, and have a good laugh. It had been just a matter of time when his neatly built wall would crumble. Though he would never confess it out loud to anyone, Thranduil loved gallows humour. The only person who had ever known had been his wife. Their private jokes about death have been the thing he had been missing the most since the day she had left him. But to be laughing few centimeters from the coffin containing deceased person who was - thanks to him - late for their own funeral? That really wasn't proper behaviour. He swiftly tried to remedy his professional failure, and ended up furiously biting his lips and sending the black-haired culprit reproachful and indignant looks, as the laugh was still mercilessly gurgling in the back of his throat.

“I'm sorry. I guess I've overstepped.” Bard guiltily hung his head, took the tool box from Thranduil, and headed back to the opened bonnet.

Thranduil's laugh died out at once. He didn't want Bard to think he was angry with him, when the truth was the exact opposite. He realised that the good man had merely been trying to lighten the situation that was quickly turning Thranduil into nervous wreck on the verge of hysteria. And damn it, this unexpected saviour on the bike was the only person in long, long years who had had enough courage and cheek to make morbid jokes around him! And there was nobody else in the earshot. And Thranduil decided it wasn't worth it to lose a chance for finding a good friend for some pompous (and _dead_ ) big shot. So he pulled a face at the sumptuous coffin one last time, closed the door, and briskly followed Bard.

A shiver almost ran down his spine at the sight of how unwelcoming the world looked in that moment. Sultry, tense calm before the storm took over the land, disrupted only by sinister whispering of wind in the tree limbs of nearby forest. On a sudden impulse Thranduil reached through a window inside the car, and turned on the radio.

 

 _Oh, and it's raining again_  
_Loud on your car like bullets on tin._  
_Oh, and it's raining again_  
_Open the door and pulling me in_

 

The moment he heard the song he almost laughed aloud again. “It occurred to me you might not like to work in deathly silence,” he said nonchalantly, and excessively batted his eyelashes at Bard, who stopped rummaging around the tool box, listened, and wrinkled his brow.

“Are you serious about this song? I wouldn't provoke the weather if I were you.”

“Dead serious,” deadpanned Thranduil. Bard figured out what he was doing, and his crooked warm smile was back instantly – though now it seemed little more full of teeth and mischievous. Thranduil thought to himself that if there was such a thing as sexy teeth, they were Bard's. Just that moment he realised something, and spoke all matter-of-factly again. “But if you were trying to get away from that storm before you ran into me, I assure you I won't be offended, and I'll understand if you hop on your bike and ride on. And if you can't fix it, it's not a big deal, and I certainly don't want you to toil over it and needlessly get drenched to the skin.”

Bard gave a short chuckle and walked to his bike. Despite Thranduil's expectation he didn't get on. He just dug into the cabinet under the saddle, and took out a small torch. “Not once during the short while I've been here did I regret that I stopped,” he said without taking his eyes off of Thranduil's face that was now at arm's length from his. “I needed to pop my clogs a little anyway.”

“Savage,” Thranduil mumbled, while shaking with guiltily muffled laugh, and surprised himself with how affectionately he said the word. He hastily lowered his eyes to the object in Bard's hand, and raised his eyebrows curiously. “Are my prospects _that_ dark?”

The man frowned, bewildered for a moment, but then it seemed like he remembered where he had been headed originally.

“Oh, on the contrary! I can fix this in a few minutes. But the light's pretty dim right now, so you're going to be set an important task of holding the torch for me.”

Thranduil took the flashlight from him, and when the man stooped down to his work again, he stood right at his side trying to be the best lightbearer the world's ever seen. Still, after few seconds Bard gently took his wrist to lower his hand a little, and the touch was so unexpected that he almost dropped the torch.

“You see, the problem is right here: the piston-”

“Stop right there, don't even tell me. I don't know the first thing about engines, and I probably wouldn't get anything from it,” Thranduil explained when a pair of surprised eyes looked up at him. At first they seemed like two black obsidians, but then, for a fleeting moment, they showed a spectrum of shades of grey and brown when a lightning crossed the sky above them. All of a sudden Thranduil felt like he had been struck with it; the whole right side of his body was tingling – the side that was touching Bard. His heat, the rhythm of his breathing, his smell – it all felt so _right_ , and their touch was the only thing that was making sense in that moment.

“But maybe you should know it in case it happens again,” Bard argued amusedly, and it seemed like his look for some reason couldn't stop oscillating between Thranduil's eyes and mouth.

Thranduil bit his lip. “Then I guess you better should stick around,” he uttered invitingly, and with a corner of his eye he saw Bard's hand jerk up, then it extricated itself from the insides of the hearse, and painfully slowly moved towards Thranduil.

He was beginning to believe that the lightning had actually been generated by the two of them, for the air filling the few centimetres between their faces was literally sparkling and crackling with electricity. He took a shuddering breath, and tried hard to recall the reason why the thing he was about to do was improper. But his thinking was obscured by a storm cloud of the desire to run his fingers through that short black stubble, and the thought of where else he would have liked to feel its touch...

A large cold raindrop suddenly splattered at the very top of his head. Before he managed to wake up from his weird trance, about a hundred more identical droplets hit his body. The world turned into one huge ice-cold shower; how convenient! Thranduil widened his eyes at cursing Bard, whom he had intended to take right here and now just a few moments ago, barely two metres from his dead client. He was astonished by his utter loss of control. Several morbid jokes were one thing, but sex with complete stranger-?!

“In the car!” he ordered. But Bard scowled, and his eyes wandered back to the engine. Thranduil forced himself to take his eyes off of Bard's nearly through and through wet t-shirt, and ran the few steps to the bike, where Bard had left his jacket. He threw the smart piece of clothing to its owner, and in the moment of his distraction resolutely closed the bonnet. “In the car. Now.” Bard made defiant face at the commanding tone but there was a wicked glint in his eyes.

“I almost did it!” he huffed after they both shut the car's doors behind them.

Thranduil figured he was talking about the fixing of the engine and not about what had nearly happened between the two of them. “It doesn't matter. It can wait a few minutes longer.” (Personally, he wasn't so sure which of the two things he meant.)

 

 _Come and take a walk on the wild side_  
_Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain_  
_You like your girls insane_  
_Choose your last words_  
_This is the last time_  
_'Cause you and I, we were born to die_

 

With disgusted grumble he quickly turned off the radio. “Not even Mr. Smaug deserves this level of morbidity,” he explained nervously. He kept it to himself that it was actually the part about _hard kissing in the rain_ that was irritating him the most.

“You better turn the lights on, so nobody crushes into us in this downpour,” his companion suggested with an uncomfortably knowing and smug smile that implied he could see right through him.

Thranduil listened to his advice, and incredulously shook his head. “So cautious all of a sudden, coming from a man who rides a motorbike without a helmet.” He pinned the biker down to the seat with a stern look that he had usually saved just for Legolas.

“Oh no...” Bard moaned and looked as if he was preparing for a lecture. And he got one.

“I don't have the slightest reason not to believe you are an excellent driver. But accidents could happen to anybody. I had the 'pleasure' to work with quite a few experienced speed demons, who thought their face was much too pretty for a helmet, and that ten-ton trucks and trees would jump out of their way in fear... When they arrived to my place, they usually didn't have _any_ face – damn it, sometimes their head arrived separately-” he paused when, to his outrage, Bard's lips burst into an amused smile.

“But had they been wearing a helmet, the head could at least be uninjured,” he mocked the blonde's perfectly parental tone.

Thranduil murdered him with a look, speechlessly opened his mouth and closed it again, and grunted resignedly, “Surely your stance on this would be different if you were a father of a family.”

For a longer while silence filled the car, interrupted only by the angry pounding of the rain. Thranduil tried not to imagine Bard's broken body on the table in their mortuary. He did surprisingly well. The man in his fantasies first ceased to look like he had gone through a meat grinder, then his skin lost the ashy tone, and then Thranduil had to stop himself, take a deep breath, and ponder when he had become a necrophiliac.

Then Bard hesitantly cleared his throat, and carefully spoke up. “I'd hate to ruin your theory, but I actually have three children.” He saw wide-eyed Thranduil blink rapidly, taking a breath for another litany about irresponsibility, and hurried up with his explanation. “And I very well know only a bloody fool rides a motorbike without a helmet. But today I was forced by certain special circumstances, and- blimey, it's cold in here!” He shivered and pulled the jacket tighter over his soaking wet t-shirt.

Thranduil had to laugh at the masterfully delivered change of topic. “Of course. Our silent friend in the back has his very own cooling system turned on.” He himself was so used to the cold he hadn't even thought about turning on the heating. But now he promptly flipped it on so that Bard on top of everything wouldn't catch cold because of him.

“Crikey, this thing is like some boring and depressing ice-cream truck,” the man whistled hoarsely.

“Mmm, just wait when I bring a shovel and ask, 'How many scoops?'”

“In that case I'll answer, 'No thanks, I'll take one urn full.'”

And here they were again: laughing loudly like two old friends, as if they haven't known each other for less than an hour. Thranduil was aware of how horrible it was, but it felt so right all the same. His inner cynical monster was purring with delight.

“And how did the one in the back die anyway?” Bard asked curiously.

Thranduil let his hair down, and set out to brush the silvery waterfall with his fingers to help it dry. He assumed the heating had started doing its duty. The air in the small space got considerably warmer, and Bard's cheeks – where they were not covered with stubble – turned a little pinker. “Supposedly, he slipped on a maraschino cherry and got himself impaled on a fire poker – straight to the heart,” he replied briefly.

“And you believe this?” Bard asked, and something in his voice caught Thranduil's attention. For a moment he forgot about his hair, and with narrowed eyes searched the weather-beaten, handsome face that gave away absolutely nothing.

“Is there any reason why I shouldn't?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

The air was heavy for a moment as if filled with unspoken words. Thranduil didn't understand where the change had come from, but he knew he wasn't only imagining it. For the briefest moment Bard lowered his gaze, but the next instant he shrugged and smiled like it was nothing. “How would I know. Just that the ' _supposedly'_ at the beginning didn't sound like you believe it all that much.”

“You have to admit that it sounds a bit crazy,” he snorted doubtfully. “And to me the wound looked too clean and geometric for a fire poker...” He was sifting his hair through his fingers again, and Bard was watching him with interest. “But I'm in no position to judge. The police surely investigated it after all. And no matter how it happened, the result stays the same: the man is dead and late for his own funeral.”

“And we've come to a deadlock until it stops raining,” grinned Bard, and he didn't look like he minded at all.

“Isn't your wife going to be looking for you?”

“My wife died four years ago,” he said without hesitation, and surprised Thranduil with how cold he sounded.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. I'm not particularly touchy about it. Our relationship wasn't of the warmest kind. She'd used to be amazing woman, but shortly after Tilda was born – our youngest – something went haywire in her head and she started doing stupid things.” Despite what he had said before, Bard now sounded bitter and sad, as he was staring apathetically at the rills of rainwater running down the windscreen. “And I don't want it to sound mean, but she'd brought upon herself what had happened to her.” It sounded very mysterious, but Thranduil decided not to pry.

“And aren't your children going to worry about you?” he asked.

“Why – are you planning on kidnapping me?”

Any witty reply that Thranduil might have come with had perished to oblivion when Bard turned his face to him. He saw his look slide down the fingers he was still absently brushing through his hair. For a tense, breath-hitching moment, his gaze stopped on Thranduil's lips, and finally it stopped right on his eyes – darkened and seething with wild and seductive intention. Thranduil felt like he had received an electric shock – but the kind that made the whole surface of his body sing with feverish desire for another one. Instead of words, his mouth let out a sharp and deep shuddering breath, and before he even got to breathe in properly again, he took a deep draught of a new, distinctive scent of Bard's wet hair, and a primitive, provocative smell of a damp human skin and leather, as the man closed the distance between them, and despite the confined space of the car ended up all but on Thranduil's lap. In an instant his left hand tangled in the silvery strands, the right one was gripping the upholstery, and it was the only thing preventing their bodies from pressing together by the force of the Earth's and carnal gravity. Thranduil moved towards his touch, and shivered – partly because of the tickling pleasure in his hair and on his ear, partly from impatience that made his own hand shoot up, so that he could seize the front of Bard's jacket and pull him and all his sensual scent and radiant heat so close that their noses fought a short single combat. Fingers of his other hand finally got the chance to try what the rough touch of hairy jaw felt like to his skin. The sensation was spreading like a wave along his nerve fibres, until it arrived to his loins, where it exploded into a swarm of restless sparklets. And then he felt slight but distracting pressure of something longish and cold on his right thigh. A second later he remembered it couldn't be anything other than his pocket and inside it a flashlight he had been holding for Bard a little while ago. Thranduil pulled up short, when his foggy mind got invaded by the events that had lead to the situation they were finding themselves in right now. Shame, anger and regret poured over him, and suddenly he knew they were not going to get any further.

The change in Thranduil's temper didn't go unnoticed by the other man. He pulled back a bit to be able to search Thranduil's expression, and fumbled obviously, but only momentarily, before a bitter realisation spilled over his features. “Bad timing?”

Thranduil made an apologetic face, and let his hands fall limply on his knees. “I was determined that it doesn't matter. But I just can't do it when my client is right here behind this thin barrier,” he said dejectedly.

Bard gently extricated his hand from Thranduil's hair, and gave a long sigh. “That bloke's even bigger pain in the arse dead than he was alive.” He slowly pulled away, and folded himself back on a passenger seat. The silver pendant on a zipper of his jacket tinkled quietly, and caught Thranduil's attention with a dull glint.

“What does the silver arrow mean?” he asked, because it seemed like a convenient opportunity for a change of topic, and pointed at Bard's chest.

The dark-haired man's features flashed with strangely tentative – almost cautious expression like lightning. But it was gone so quickly Thranduil couldn't be sure it had even been there at all. The corners of Bard's mouth immediately turned up in a warm smile, as he held the pendant between his thumb and forefinger. “Sigrid – my other daughter – found it at the bottom of a lake. And because I like to shoot a bow, she cleaned it and gave it to me as a gift for Father's Day. In September. She said I could decide if she'd given it to me six months too late, or six months early.”

Thranduil watched the big transformation in his companion's face when speaking about his daughter and recalling the event. There were wrinkles in the corners of his eyes Thranduil had not seen before. He thought they added to his beauty, because they highlighted the tenderness emitted by those dark eyes. For the second time in a short while he felt his heart beating in his throat because of Bard, and a strange vertigo around his stomach. He wished so badly for this conversation to go on – even more so than he wished to continue with their kissing match. He wanted to get to know as much as possible about this spontaneous, skilfull man with mysterious aura, dark sense of humour, and secret fatherly pride, who had glided in on the wings of the storm.

“That's beautiful,” he uttered. “Legolas used to make wreaths for me, when he was younger.”

“Made of graveyard flowers?”

“Of course. Sometimes even with a ribbon reading, _In loving memory._ ” Thranduil rolled his eyes. But he had to smile when he heard Bard's chuckle. They exchanged looks, and suddenly the atmosphere was almost homely. It was comfortably warm inside the car now, and the rain was still pattering on the roof and windscreen – though now much more slowly and quietly. He thought that pretty soon the rain would stop, and Bard would finish up the fixing of his car. And then they would shake hands, say goodbye, and take off back to their reality that was going to start to exist again. His stomach clenched in an abrupt wave of panic when he imagined the short while by the side of the road in the car with dead businessman in the back should be the only time they would get to spend together. All at once, he felt pressing urge to say something to prevent that.

“You see, Bard,” he began quietly, and he had to clear his constricted throat as his voice hitched. Bard gave him encouraging half-smile and raised his eyebrows curiously, and that gave him enough strength to continue. “Earlier out there – when I said you should stick around... I didn't mean that I need a mechanic. For a long time I haven't met anyone I was so compatible with in such short time like I am with you. Lately I've literally buried myself under a heap of work, and things somehow began to slip through my fingers. And, when my car died, it was the final nail in my coffin... And that short while with you has helped me immensely – _you_ have helped me. And I don't even think you do it intentionally; you simply have that effect on me. I'd love to get to know you better – and your children as well.”

He felt himself blushing furiously. But he was very proud of himself for finding the courage to say it all. He tentatively ran his eyes over the face of his companion, and he was sure there was fifty percent possibility that he'd just scared Bard to death and he was going to bolt out of there in a flash.

“Those morbid metaphors of yours will be the death of me,” was the first thing Bard said after he stopped staring at Thranduil with inconsistent expression hovering between happy and unhappy; and Thranduil assumed he was either deeply moved, or regretful. “Thanks for that beautiful speech that's totally taken the wind out of my sails, so anything I say right now would sound like parroting,” Bard grumbled in mocked reproach, and gave the fair-haired man crooked half-smile. “I can say that before I bumped into you, this day had not been exactly one of my top five, either. And I too would like to see you again...”

“But...?” Thranduil said the word that seemed to be hanging over Bard's head, as he fell silent and got back to his regretful staring.

He sighed heavily, and suddenly reached out for Thranduil's right hand to hold onto it. “But the course my life takes – and my children's as well – is going to be decided this afternoon, and I don't want to promise you anything, when I don't know what the result's going to be.”

To that Thranduil frowned, uncomprehending. Now there was way too much mystery about his new friend. “What? What's that supposed to mean? Are you in some kind of trouble? Perhaps I could help-” He broke off when Bard vigorously shook his head and momentarily squeezed his fingers a little harder.

“I'm sure it's going to be all right. But it's something I need to sort out and finish before I'll be free to begin pursuing beautiful things... and people,” he added, with a telling look at Thranduil's freshly made braid.

“And after that will you tell me what was it all about?” he asked, and extricated his hand from Bard's hold to entwine their fingers.

“I probably will,” Bard replied hesitantly.

“Swear on your life!” he said imperiously, and he managed to keep a straight face even when Bard took on identically serious expression and indignantly said, “Is this your insidious method for acquiring new clients?!”

Thranduil was fervently nodding his head, as their lips stretched wide in idiotic smiles. Then he realised a sensation of hardened skin under his forefinger, when he ran it over a small spot on Bard's first finger. He lowered his gaze with interest. It wasn't fist time he'd seen a callus of that kind. “So, you shoot a bow, huh?”

“Yes,” Bard nodded, and watched Thranduil inspect his hand.

“Are you any good?”

A moment of modest considering. “Aye.”

“And?” Thranduil encouraged him, trying to get more from him than a vague, one-worded answer.

Bard rolled his eyes and nervously ran a hand through his hair. “In school they would say I was an archery prodigy.” Thranduil wondered why did it made Bard so uncomfortable, when it was nothing to be ashamed of.

“And you never thought about doing it for a living?”

It was a completely innocent conversational question, but Thranduil felt the man next to him tense and he nearly jumped when Bard sharply turned to him, eyes filled with expression he hadn't seen before. It looked almost like a panic. Thranduil opened his mouth to ask what he had said wrong. But that moment his phone vibrated in his pocket. Bard turned away to stare at the road through the windscreen once more. Thranduil frowned at his profile one last time, and squeezed his fingers apologetically before he let go of his hand. He fished out the cell phone from his pocket to find out his son was calling.

“Shit, I completely forgot to call Legolas,” he grumbled wearily, and with horror of what he might be about to hear, he put it to his ear.

“Where the hell are you so long?!”

Thranduil winced painfully, as he heard the stressed-out voice of his son. “Still on the road. We've got caught in a storm and-”

“Fuck me sideways with a ten-foot bargepole, dad!” Legolas' shout reverberated in the cabin, Thranduil promptly moved the phone further from his ear, and Bard gurgled with laugh.

“Legolas, would you be kind enough to calm down? What did they say about the ceremony having to be delayed?”

“Damn it, whatever.”

“Stop sulking and cursing like a sailor, and tell me what their reaction was,” he ordered with his most emphatic tone.

“I've just told you. They said, _Damn it, whatever_ ,” Legolas whimpered in a peeved manner.

“What?” perplexed, Thranduil frowned so deeply his eyebrows almost tickled his nose. “Whom did you tell anyway?”

“Thorin Oakenshield, and then that speaker of theirs – Gandalf whatshisname.”

Dumbfounded, Thranduil fell silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say. “Soo... If I'm correct, they don't have the slightest problem with me arriving late...?”

“Well...” His son sighed deeply, and he would swear he could hear Legolas biting his fingernails – his everlasting bad habit. “They don't, but if you don't come soon they will possibly get totally sloshed.”

Thranduil felt like he must have been hearing things. When he had been arranging the funeral with Mr. Oakenshield and Smaug's assistent B. Baggins, they seemed like respectable men. Absolutely nothing had indicated that they had intended to turn the funeral ceremony into a wild party. While he glowered at the wheel trying to figure out what should he say to his son, he heard the door on the passenger's side open, and felt the fresh air filled with sharp and refreshing scent of wet earth and leaves flow in. A moment later the bonnet opened and hid a dark figure of his new friend. He realised that the rain had stopped. His heart clenched a bit more at that thought.

“Listen, Legolas. It's stopped raining, and Bard said it would take him a few minutes to fix the car. I'll be there shortly, and I'm going to take the reins.” _I'm going to teach them manners_ , he thought darkly. _They won't get away with profaning somebody's last goodbye, no matter how big a brute the man was. (Not when it's cost me so much work and nerves.)_ “For now, try to tactly, but strongly point out to them they're not to act like primitives. Tell them that Mr. Smaug and I are going to be there in the flash.”

“Gah, alright,” Legolas sniffed miserably, and Thranduil could hear how weary he probably was. “But seriously hurry up, or I'll start drinking with them.”

Thranduil smiled because deep in his heart he knew his son would do nothing so irresponsible. Not anymore. “Duly noted. And Legolas?”

“What?”

“You're doing fine. But you can do even better.”

“OK, I'm about to ring off on you.”

Thranduil sighed heavily, and with words of goodbye ended the phone call. It looked like there would be more complications with 'the mourners' than with the deceased one. He stared blindly ahead for a little longer, trying to find some will to move, and then slowly opened the door. A splendidly fresh breeze blew on his face. The moment he laid one foot on the wet asphalt, a bearded face peeked out from behind the bonnet, and Bard said, “There! I am finished. Try to start it up.” Reluctantly, he turned back to the wheel and turned the ignition key. When the engine smoothly started up, a lump formed in Thranduil's throat. He wished he could delay it some more, few years at least! When he imagined his client's state after such long time in the boot, he crinkled his nose and shook his head on such naïve ideas. He knew it was going to be a big relief when this job is over, and had to admit the sooner it would be done, the better.

When he turned the engine off again, Bard closed the bonnet and smiled. Thranduil returned the smile through the windscreen covered with tiny droplets. It seemed that neither of them wanted to be the first to look away. So it took a while before Thranduil used his wits, and instead of staring opened the door and got out. Bard was already coming up to him, and handed him back the tool box. “I don't know how to thank you,” Thranduil breathed out as he took it from him, and shifted his weight tentatively, for he really didn't know what to do. He felt like delaying, but at the same time he knew he should hurry.

“This is fine. You're welcome,” Bard replied simply. “And be on your way before your son starts doing drugs again.” Crooked smile on his lips lost much of its cheerfulness but it still warmed Thranduil down to his bones. “Don't worry, it'll turn out just fine.”

“Worry about _your_ things turning out fine,” Thranduil remarked anxiously. But Bard just waved his hand and turned to his bike to get it ready for a ride. Though it was nicely washed from the rain, it didn't look very comfortable with water gathered in every curve. Despite that fact Bard was getting on before long, and for Thranduil it was all a little too fast. With three long steps he came up to the man, who had just pulled the leather band off his hair. The ends of his black strands that had gotten wet in the rain, and then had been slowly drying up, curled like ringlets. Thranduil couldn't hold himself from grinning at the back of his neck, before he reached out his free hand and meaningfully tapped Bard's shoulder. The moment Bard turned to him, he planted a chaste but loud kiss to his cheek. “For your effort,” he explained.

Bard lifted an eyebrow and looked pensive for a moment, before he said, “That's too much for such a small amount of work. Now I owe you.” Then he gave one more mischievous grin, put on his sunglasses, and nodded goodbye.

“Wait! I don't have any way to contact you, nor do you me!” Thranduil realised. But just then the engine roared, and his new friend slowly moved forward.

“Don't worry, I will find you!” He flashed his white teeth at him for the last time, and took off on the road. Before Thranduil's heart banged itself four times against his ribs, the motorbike picked up a furious speed and was fading from sight, while a herd of startled deer scattered across the field where they had come after the rain to graze on lush grass.

And Thranduil was sure he wasn't going to see Bard ever again. Even if he wouldn't end up totalling the bike and himself in a crash somewhere. He wanted to believe the promise that the man had given him, and that their liking was mutual like he had declared in the car. But it seemed almost impossible, now that he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared before without leaving anything behind – not even several digits scribbled on a napkin. He had left something behind after all, Thranduil remembered out of the blue, dug into his pocket and fished out Bard's torch. He smiled at it with a heavy sigh, put it back, and took the tool box to the car's back door.

Bard was right: he should hurry before Legolas started to seek for marijuana among the funeral guests. According to what his son had told him about them, they would probably have some. When he put away the tools and the warning triangle, he heard a car on the road behind him. Though more than the sound of engine, he heard a racket of some absolutely horribly cheery and hideously catchy melody from a car radio. A few seconds later a colourful van slowed down next to him. A tousled brown beard poked out of the driver's window, followed by widely smiling face with rosy cheeks. A pair of twinkling blue eyes winked at Thranduil. “Howdy! What's up? The car is playing up? You need a hand?” the evidently good-humoured and friendly fellow asked. Thranduil slowly read the writing on the side of the van, _Bombadil Car Repair Shop_ , and felt like a well-shaken can of a sticky, sweet soda had exploded in his chest.

“No, it's ok now, thanks,” he mumbled, at the end of his rope, and then tilted his head back in utterly undignified and shameless manner, and laughed at the top of his lungs.

 

* * *

 

The hearse ran like clockwork. Thranduil arrived in the picturesque, if slightly shabby, little town called Esgaroth where Mr. Smaug was supposed to find his final rest, precisely thirty-five minutes after his last call with Legolas.

The company that had gathered for the occasion of Smaug's funeral at the opulent country seat Lonely Mountain Manor was large and varied. It seemed to consist of colleagues from the trade, (now ex-) employees and neighbours. Nobody was actually in a close – or even akin – relationship with the deceased. Thranduil didn't know how exactly had his son phrased the request for them not to act like primitives, or if he had somehow threatened them with his father's mighty and merciless wrath if he came and caught them in the middle of boisterous drinking bout. However, when he arrived, although some of them already looked a little fuddled, at least they spoke with relatively low voices. And even though there was no grief in their faces, there were no smiles either. And so the only thing that earned his outragedly raised eyebrow was a couple of bearded men playing cards on the bier, where the opened coffin had originally been to be displayed.

Legolas alone looked much more relaxed than he had sounded during their last phone call, and he seemed to find an interesting conversation topic with red-haired stocky lad in a dingy suit he had apparently inherited from a more corpulent relative. Thranduil left his son to his own devices, and quietly burst with pride looking at the beautiful floral tributes and decoration.

Due to the delay of the ceremony, it was decided there would be no displaying of the opened coffin (half of the guests looked shocked when they learnt _that_ was the bier's purpose, _yuck, whose idea it was?!_ ), and that the company would set off straight to the graveyard. And thus one of Thranduil's last tasks was to see to the coffin being placed on the horse-pulled wagon and covered with flowers, before he joined the funeral procession with the others.

The ceremony itself was rather unorthodox; be it the doing of the speaker, who recited Smaug's life's journey like a bedtime story, going to unnecessary details, or of the fact that most faces around the opened grave looked unmistakably relieved, or of the incident when in one moment the honourable Thorin Oakenshield in his tailored suit leaned over the coffin, and only the quick intervention of Mr. Baggins stopped him from spitting on it. After what Thranduil had learnt from Gandalf's narration (and he wasn't even sure he had understood all the metaphors and euphemisms), he couldn't really blame Thorin for his action. Smaug indisputably had been a disgusting ulcer on the planet's face. Nevertheless, everything was going quite smoothly. Thranduil was standing aback and a bit aside, keeping an eye on the gravediggers ready to lower the coffin in the hole, and felt the stress slowly leaving him.

And then Mr. Baggins tugged at one sleeve of that expensive tailored suit of Thorin Oakenshield, meaningfully jerked his head in a direction of the graveyard's gate, and whispered something in his ear. Both men turned away from the scene of reverence, and looked over the rows of gravestones. Their behaviour caught Thranduil's attention, and he curiously turned his sight to the other side of the graveyard. A man was leaning against the wall next to the iron arch of the gate. Behind the wrought decorative bars, a motorbike could be seen that he must have parked there.

It was Bard.

The face he had been unable to get out of his mind ever since their abrupt parting, and which he had doubted ever to see again for about the same long, was all of a sudden only some thirty paces away from him, albeit without the bright smile and still hidden behind dark sunglasses. Bard was wearing the same leather jacket, and his hair was still angelically curled into ringlets.

Thranduil watched in puzzlement as Oakenshield and Baggins set off down the gentle slope, in a minute they came up to his new acquaintance, and shook hands with him. They barely exchanged a few words, then Oakenshield fished underneath his suit jacket and took out what Thranduil guessed to be a brown envelope he hurriedly handed to Bard. Then his attention was distracted by the noise from the graveside where a group of four musicians began to play, which meant they'd started to lower the coffin in a ground. Once Thranduil looked to the gate again, Bard had already hidden the envelope. There was a small smile on his face, and Oakenshield with Baggins were glowing like two Christmas trees, while telling him something in a low voice.

What the hell was all that supposed to mean?! Was Bard a friend of the two, and desperately needed to borrow something? They were being too reserved to be friends, he thought and dismissed the idea. Was he arranging something for the funeral as well? If so, then why hadn't he mentioned it to Thranduil?

Thranduil's train of thought was again interrupted by music. He realised that, though the musicians were playing traditional instruments, they definitely were not playing any traditional funeral melody. It occurred to him that it could have been a favourite song of the deceased man. It sounded familiar to him – like some slightly more sophisticated arrangement of a classic rock song... He watched Bard as he nodded couple more times to something Baggins had said to him and as Oakenshield patted his shoulder. Meanwhile Thranduil was trying to recall the lyrics of the song in his head because he was positive he knew them, and it was really annoying that he couldn't remember when they were practically on the tip of his tongue. And then he heard Gandalf – the lengthy speaker - humming the words under his breath, as he appeared from nowhere and stood next to him with his hands in pockets. That moment the lyrics came to him.

 

_I was feelin' good, kinda high and cruisin'_

_I was tryin' to forget someone I had been losin'_  
_Then you came along, surprise, surprise_  
_You shot me down_  
_I was lyin' crashed out on the ground_  
_You shot me down_

 

Bard nodded at Oakenshield and Baggins one last time, and then they parted ways in the same sudden manner as when they'd met before at the graveyard wall. The two men headed back to the graveside with brisk – almost bouncing – gait. Bard zipped his jacket up to his neck, and the silver arrow on the zipper flashed even from the distance like a fish scale. And in front of Thranduil's inner sight flashed a picture of the thin, smooth, red wound over Smaug's ceased heart. Bard then turned in Thranduil's direction and held his hand up in a greeting accompanied by his charming crooked smile. And right after Thranduil somewhat rigidly returned the gesture, he turned on his heel and walked out the gate to once again start up his bike and vanish in a cloud of dust.

And that moment Thranduil knew what he had been doing here. All those nervous glances in his car, and the mysterious, scrappy information was suddenly making sense. And he felt a little faint. He looked back to the spot where the coffin had already started to disappear under six feet of dirt. The music was still playing, and the faces around the grave were glancing at each other and smiling, people were kissing and hugging. The atmosphere was clear, fresh and peaceful like a land after the storm.

“So, master Bowman was here and didn't even come to say hello to me,” complained the man in a white suit who was still standing next to Thranduil and with his tousled eyebrows frowned across the graveyard.

Thranduil gave a weak chuckle. “His name is Bowman?”

Gandalf glanced at him from a corner of his eye – unexpectedly bright and piercing for an old man. “Fitting, isn't it? Excellent archer,” he rumbled appreciatively. “And if it weren't for me, he would successfully be hiding it from the world to this day.”

The only answer he got was Thranduil's confused look.

“Yes, it was me who commended him to Thorin, and who suggested to Bard doing something praiseworthy for society.” Thranduil frowned, and suddenly felt like he was standing uncomfortably close to the old man and that he should be facing him and never ever turn his back on him again. “It wasn't easy, I'm telling you,” Gandalf continued. “He is a private and highly virtuous man. And he would do anything for his children.” He paused again, as if giving him space to digest it all – or to pass out. “His wife used to work for Smaug, did you know?”

Thranduil shrugged and winced painfully when he remembered what Bard had said about his wife. That she had started doing stupid things and her dying was a consequence of those. Working for Smaug sounded like enough stupid a thing to Thranduil – now that he had a clearer idea of what a scoundrel had the man been while alive.

“No, I've only just met Bard this morning,” he answered Gandalf's question.

“Really? He was waving on you like you were old friends,” the old man snorted in surprise, and turned to Thranduil to scrutinize him properly from head to toe for the first time. “That is out of character for him. He holds people at arm's length, and most of them he doesn't allow to come too close.”

Thranduil returned Gandalf's piercing gaze with the same intensity, and stared him down from his height over his nose to scatter all the doubts in the old man's mind that he was definitely worthy of Bard's attention, and Bard Thranduil's, and nothing anyone might object to it would change that.

Gandalf didn't say any more about Bard, he just smiled amiably, and the tense moment between them passed. “Beautiful funeral!” he observed and turned to face the rest of the company. “Smaug would like it. It was opulent and full of dark glee: the qualities he valued the most in himself as well. You and your employees have done a great job here.”

Thranduil decided to accept the dubious compliment in silence. He didn't claim credit for the dark glee of the ceremony. His look wandered to the now silent musicians, and once again he felt astonished by the choice of the song that had accompanied Smaug to his grave. That might have surpassed even his own dark sense of humour. He stood there, feeling out of place. He glanced at Gandalf, who was currently being asked for a drink by Thorin and a pack of bearded hunks and fatties; at his wide and a little crazy smile, and thought the story about slipping on a maraschino cherry was undoubtedly his working.

When Gandalf accepted the invitation, and caught Thranduil looking, he promptly invited him as well. “Surely you're coming with us, right? It all turned out well – let's celebrate a little bit!”

Thranduil swiftly declined. Crowd of funeral guests passed by him, and many of them assured him that the invitation would still stand in case he changed his mind. And then it was just him as the only living soul left in the whole graveyard. He stood by the fresh mound of dirt a while longer. Another few moments he breathed in the scent of earth, grass, and wet wings of the stone angels, savouring the sacred peace, until he realised the weather had gotten colder, and it was beginning to rain. From behind a gravestone several rows from Smaug's grave emerged a small dark spot, and as it sauntered closer, he could see it was a stray dog: a strange mix of poodle and bottle brush. He disregarded Thranduil completely, as he lively sniffed the wreath decorated with red tailflowers, and the mound that captivated him so much he lifted a leg and gave it an abundant sprinkle. Thranduil watched the little black heathen and what he saw was a black furry full stop marking the end of the whole absurd story that was his today's day at work. He turned around, joined hands behind his back, and slowly dawdled off. And as he walked, the full meaning of Gandalf's words hit him. He had been right – it had all turned out well, had it not? His mouth widened in a hopeful smile. It was time to set out for home.

 

* * *

 

A long black car jolted with deliberate pace through bends of the satisfyingly empty road through deserted no man's land somewhere between the islands of civilization, and under the sky that had begun turning orange, as it was slowly coming to gold summer dusk. Thranduil now had sun behind his back, and a pleasant, torpid windlessness in his soul.

He had departed from Lonely Mountain Manor as soon as possible. Legolas had decided to stay a little longer, and Thranduil had already guessed he wouldn't see his son home sooner than next noon. Whatever, after today he deserved to blow off some steam.

He hoped from the bottom of his heart that ceremonies like today's one wouldn't become a common occurrence in Lasgalen funeral parlour. He hoped Thorin Oakenshield and the rest of the company that had gathered around Smaug's funeral would get back to their firms and business and wouldn't dabble in mafia and criminals' work hoping he would be their personal discreet corpse-cleaner. Last time he had seen Gandalf, the old man had been jabbering something along the lines of meeting sometime over a cup of tea and pie, but Thranduil was pretty sure that if he ever saw that bearded, lined face in his home, he would board up all the doors and windows, and put a cauldron of oil on a stove.

On the other hand Thranduil knew whom he would very much like to see again, and it was driving him crazy that he couldn't contact Bard in any way. Of course, he had thought about asking Gandalf, who apparently knew his address, but the old dogfox had started babbling about something else entirely, and sneaked away to make company to a tall fair-haired woman who had looked very important and vaguely familiar. And when he had wanted to ask Oakenshield and Baggins for a contact on Bard, they had both been who-knows-where and he hadn't been able to find them for the life of him. It was just excruciating. Because, despite the shocking secret he had found out about Bard his keen interest had not subsided, and his wish to spend more time with him had not disappeared. The man hadn't lied to Thranduil about himself, he had only kept to himself something you simply didn't tell people you've just met. Pretty much possibly from fear that he might had scared Thranduil off and disheartened him. And Thranduil had been very close to it in the graveyard. He couldn't deny it. The chat with Gandalf had opened his eyes though, and he was now sure his first impression had not been wrong, and Bard deserved his chance. Who was he to judge anyway? Everyone had to have it out with themselves about their own deeds.

He was so engrossed in his philosophical reflecting, he drove about ten more metres before he realised he'd just passed by a figure sitting close to the roadside. In the wing mirror he could also see a motorbike standing a little further, at the very edge of steep rocky precipice. Thranduil looked over his shoulder just to be sure, and laughed incredulously when he recognized with certainty the bastard who was all over his thoughts. He reversed, rolled the window down, and ran a critical look over Bard, who was sitting with sunglasses on his nose upon his spread out leather jacket, legs crossed at his ankles, looking like he had just decided to catch some rays.

“You look like you're about to buy the farm,” he observed in business-like tone.

Bard shook his head with a smirk, and slowly turned his face on him. “And you look drop-dead gorgeous.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Did the high-performance machine between your legs suddenly run out of steam?” he asked pityingly, and jerked his chin towards Bard's parked vehicle. Bard stood up abruptly, beat the dust out of his jacket, and shook his head again. “No way; the bike seems to taken its last breath though.”

Thranduil couldn't see through the dark glasses, but he was sure Bard had roguishly winked at him. He rolled his eyes again in scandalised manner, and refused to start blushing. Then he watched bewildered as the dark-haired man turned around, came up to his bike Thranduil could barely imagine him without, and to his shock kicked it off the precipice. He paid no regard to any of the dreadful noises coming from the gorge behind him as he came up to Thranduil staring in astonishment, and finally took off his sunglasses. “I guess I need a ride. Will you have me?” he asked very innocently, and his look glided hopefully in the car's cabin over Thranduil's shoulder.

“In the front or in the back?” Thranduil drawled, and tossed his untied silvery mane.

Possibly for the first time since Thranduil had known Bard the man looked shy – if only for a moment before he replied, “By your side, preferably.”

Their eyes locked, and Thranduil's heart fluttered with a curious feeling, as if he already was one foot home. He smiled, and hoped the smile reflected at least some of that wonderful feeling. Bard smiled back, and Thranduil thought about how much he would like to know if Bard's children had inherited that crooked, warm smile. “Get in,” he ordered and jerked his eyebrows in the direction of passenger's seat. “And fasten your seatbelt. You're not getting away with putting your life at risk in my car,” he warned the man amiably when he was finally sitting next to him.

Bard chuckled and fastened the safety belt. “Thanks for the ride. I got stuck at a dead end back there,” he said in exaggeratedly serious tone.

“I know, it seemed like a grave situation. And who knows how long would you wait for someone else driving through these backwoods; and down on your luck it would possibly be some lecher.”

“I seem to attract those.”

Thranduil burst into unstoppable simpering, and Bard flashed his uncommonly attractive teeth. “Tell me, do you treat everything you're not able to fix the same way as your bike?” he teased, because he just couldn't help it.

Bard fidgeted, and tentatively scratched a spot over his eyebrow. “It actually wasn't my bike,” he replied reluctantly. Thranduil was not even surprised anymore, really.

After that they drove in comfortable silence for a bit before Bard looked away from the landscape outside the window, and curiously glanced at his companion. “What are you thinking about?”

Thranduil fixed a sidelong look on those dark warm eyes, and sighed pensively. “About what would be the best way of asking a hitman out on a date.”

For a long while Bard fell frighteningly silent. Eventually he hoarsely cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “So you already know about that,” he said quite unnecessarily, but Thranduil still nodded in acquiesce.

“Don't worry, I'll take it to the grave,” he said quietly, and blinked at Bard with a smile. “Though I'm not yet sure which one,” he added as an afterthought, and Bard finally chuckled again.

“And you still decided to give me a chance?”

“It hasn't changed anything for me. Do you mind that I know?”

“Not in the slightest,” the dark-haired man huffed sincerely. “I just wondered that you might not want to be with someone if their dark past could one day catch up with them and get every person around them in trouble.”

Thranduil was thoughtfully quiet for a moment. But then he brightened up and took one hand off the wheel to search for something in his pocket. “If the future seems dark to us, we'll have this,” he said, extracted Bard's flashlight, and handed it to him.

Bard stared at the object in his hand for some time, emotions chasing each other on his face like on a canvas of indecisive painter. Then all of a sudden he lifted his eyes to Thranduil, undid his seatbelt, and lifted himself from the seat.

“What are you doing?” Thranduil gasped for breath in horror, and the car drew an s-shaped line on a road when Bard stretched out towards him and without warning planted stubbly kisses on his cheek, ear and collarbone.

“I'm giving you my answer to your date invitation,” his insane passenger whispered to him, and lingered a few more moments with face pressed to the crook of his neck. Thranduil tried to indulgently shake his head, and at the bottom of his soul he was glad he had been smart enough to take off his suit jacket before he had left.

“Do you detest all the means of protection?” he asked with incredulous laugh, trying with all his might to keep attention on driving when Bard's tempting scent filled his nose.

“Not all of them,” he grumbled sensually and suggestively right next to his ear, before he finally pulled away and returned to his seat.

Thranduil had goose bumps for the good next ten minutes, and places where Bard's kisses had landed burnt like touches of a demon tempter.

“So, where to now?” Bard asked to the silence that was suddenly tense and filled with ghosts of unsaid fervent words and unheard lustful sounds.

Thranduil dared to look to the side and scrutinized his friend pensively. “I would love to take you straight to my home and invite you to have my – and yours too, I suppose – today's first proper meal together. But I know the right thing to do is to offer you a ride to your home; so our destination depends on your choice.”

Bard watched him for a while with interest and dead silence until Thranduil looked back at him and caught Bard literally devouring his lips with his eyes and scratching his beard broodily. Hearing the driver's laugh, Bard woke up from his trance and smiled crookedly. “You know, I actually live in Esgaroth. So if you want to take me home, you have to do a U-turn and head back,” he said slowly, and blinked innocently.

Thranduil sharply looked over at him, eyes wide when he realised Bard wasn't joking. “Over my dead body!” he huffed with such horror that it made his companion laugh in amusement, and sped up the car as they passed by a familiar-looking place where the opened green landscape was slowly becoming the dark mass of a forest.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hats off, and big thank you to everyone who's read up to this point! I would be very grateful, if you shared your feelings about the fic, or your constructive criticism.
> 
> The song playing from the car-radio as Bard tinkers with the engine, is called “Raining Again”, and is sung by Moby. (This song was actually the very first impulse for writing this fic.) Who wouldn't recognise the popular, famous song “Born To Die” by Lana Del Rey?! Yep, that's the one the radio plays right after Thranduil and Bard get wet in the rain. And the song Gandalf & co. have so cheekily played at Smaug's funeral, is called “Shot Me Down” by Nazareth.


End file.
